Sans Defense
by RowanDarkstar
Summary: The job isn't the hard part. The challenge is maintaining her façade of control. Because it's been slipping for days." - Hurt/comfort, Helen/James friendship maybe UST , Implied Helen/John


DISCLAIMER: All belongs to Damien Kindler and Stage 3 Media and Ms. Tapping and all the usual suspects who aren't me. Just borrowing these beautiful people. Thanks for the favor.:)  
CATEGORIES: Hurt/comfort, Helen/James friendship (maybe UST), Implied Helen/John  
TIMELINE: 1986

Many thanks to Teddy E for the speedy beta, and Audrich for the industrious research.:)

My friend Madly_Love said: "I want a Helen/James fanfic (friendship) in which Helen is pregnant with Ashley and James helps her or something like that :)"

This is what the muse came up with.:)

**SANS DEFENSE**  
by  
Rowan Darkstar  
Copyright (c) 2010

She's dressed to kill. Armor of all kinds shoring her up for the task at hand. Tight black jeans and fuck me boots. Creamy silk blouse and a leather blazer. Loop earrings and heavy shadow. The job isn't the hard part. Simple interview, bit of a hunt to follow. Nothing she hasn't done day and night for near a century. The challenge is maintaining her fa ade of control. Because it's been slipping for days.

James is driving the van (because she's better with a gun), just the two of them for this leg of the mission. He's been in Old City for a month, plans to stay the year. Extended Research Project is what it says on the paperwork, something about a rare type of abnormal making its habitat in the Pacific Northwest. That's the story passed on to the man filling in as head of the UK Sanctuary. That's the work James puddles around at in off hours to make the reports seem legitimate.

Helen stares out the window at bright grey skies, and she's grateful James understands she's craving companionable silence. He's long possessed an almost sixth sense to her needs. Talking when she needs sound, standing close when she's feeling unloved. So little is ever spoken.

They're sailing down the highway, halfway to their destination, when the motion is suddenly too much, and her vision swims and her stomach flips. A few deep breaths usually resurrect control, but a few more breaths and she realizes she's losing the battle.

"James, pull over."

"What? What is it?"

"Just _pull over_. Now." She sees the concern cross his elegant countenance, but she doesn't have time or faculty to explain.

James brings the van to a smooth and efficient halt on the highway's shoulder, but the drop in velocity is almost worse than the continued motion and she can't remember the last time she felt so ill. Helen's out of the car before James can say a word.

Most of her breakfast is in the bushes by the time she realizes James is right behind her at the edge of the clearing, and his slender hands have taken of over the job of holding her hair.

As she draws a few controlled breaths in an effort to stabilize the world before straightening, James settles a cool palm across the nape of her neck. This simple steadying comfort spreads a deep warmth through her limbs and for a moment she just stands, drawing strength from his patient presence.

"I'm sorry," she says at last.

"Hush."

He's drawing circles over her back and she hadn't realized how tense the muscles were until they ripple and warm beneath his touch.

James places a bottle of water in her palm, and she can't believe he had the foresight to pick it up on the way out of the van. But she gratefully rinses out her mouth, then takes another small sip to cautiously swallow.

"Come sit down," he says after a while, and Helen lets herself be lead to a nearby fallen tree. Harcourt Arboretum a hundred years ago and it's too too hot and her corset's too tight and she ends up stretched across the picnic blanket with her head on John's leg and James drizzling cool water down her neck. She thought she left that woman in another century.

James sits on the fallen tree, hand settled at the base of her spine.

A cool breeze rises and lifts her hair and she closes her eyes as the rush of air caresses her throat.

"Did I do the right thing?" she whispers on the wind. James has a nasty habit of disabling her defenses, and she wonders randomly if he possesses some abnormal power they've all missed, or if his skills are merely effective on her.

"Helen. What are you talking about? You want this child. You've always wanted her, that's why you protected her so fiercely for all these years. Why we went through all of this. You've been her mother for a very long time. That s your little girl in there."

"I know. And, of course, I want her. But... James, what kind of life can I really offer a child? Living as we do, trapped in some sort of subterranean existence, moving through shadows, never quite tangled up with the society around us. What can I..."

"You can offer a mother who wants her baby, who loves her. An emotion of which you are quite deeply and passionately capable, despite your pretenses to the contrary. Which is about the most important thing I can think of for any child. You can give her an Uncle James who will dote on her without shame. A large, furry, and rather disturbing Bigfoot who will protect her better than any watchdog could hope to, and all the medical care and travel and education your rather ample funds can provide. Not to mention all the knowledge you yourself have to pass on to her, technical and otherwise. I believe you've learned a bit about the finer points of the human condition in these 130 years."

She closes her eyes as the wind cools her flushed skin and James draws gentle circles on her spine, his hand having found its way beneath her blazer to the silk of her blouse. "Everything you're saying is true," she says softly, "I know that. I'm just..."

"Hormonal?"

"Say that word again and you'll be hitchhiking home."

His laughter is as soft as his touch.  
He's the picture of health this morning, and it almost breaks her heart. All need for machines is hidden by sunlight. Black turtleneck and leather jacket. Smooth fitting slacks and hair a bit longer, due for a trim. She likes it longer.

They sit together, side by side, and Helen feels her muscles softening. The nausea is lessening, though she's none too eager to hit the road. "We need to get going," she offers, because she's stubborn as hell and probably will be to her dying day.

James is immovable. "The monsters can keep for a bit. Just sit."

Long fingers begin to play with her hair, drawing out individual strands and tangling in windblown curls. She starts to cry.

His voice is so tender it hurts. "Tell me, Helen."

She doesn't speak for a very long time. Then simply, "I miss John."

Leather and a stretch knit turtleneck and she's wrapped in James Watson. She's utterly without the strength to push away.

He's kissing her hair and they're probably late for their interview. But this is her little girl, and somewhere in her guts she knows the girl has John's eyes.

James's life support ticks against her chest, and she reaches her fingers around his back and unhooks the machinery to push it out of the way. He takes it from her hands and props it carefully at their feet. He doesn't need the support all the time, and he's had it on all morning. She needs to be tight against his chest and, as always, he feels exactly what she needs.

****


End file.
